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There are cameras in the bushes again.
“GO!” Truman yells. “GO!”
He can’t handle the cameras, not anymore. When he first got out, he’d wave and smile and bow, but he can’t do that anymore; he wants them gone, gone, gone. He can hear the click, click, click of their cameras- they’re watching, they’re recording- and it makes him want to gouge his ears out with his fingernails.
No. He won’t give them the satisfaction.
He runs into the house, locking the door, checking the door knob, once, twice, three times, four times. He makes sure the blackout blinds are drawn- they are, since he leaves them like that- and then he rushes to the telephone in the kitchen.
“They’re here, Sylvia. They’re here. They’re here again.” He whispers into the phone, cupping his hand in front of his mouth to hide his lips, because he knows they’re watching. He knows they got cameras in his house while he was out. “I shouldn’t have gone out. I’m so stupid.” He had trusted that it was safe, that they wouldn’t find him like the lawyer had said. It’s been almost a year since he moved here… his walk today was the first time he stepped outside. They must have taken the opportunity to pounce. The first time was when he was sleeping. The second time when he was in the bath…. None as bad as this. He had left his haven, like an idiot. They got the whole house covered. He isn’t safe.
“Truman. I’m on my way, okay? I’ll be there soon. Remember those breathing exercises the doctor gave you?”
He tries the breathing exercises. They do not help much.
Knowing Sylvia’s coming calms him a little, though. He doesn’t trust anyone- not the doctors he met or his lawyer or the fans that would jump in front of him anywhere he went- but he trusted Sylvia. She tried to tell him the truth on the island; no one else did that.
Sylvia arrives within the hour, and by then, Truman has taken refuge inside his pantry, a place small enough for him to check didn’t have any cameras. She knocks on the pantry door. “Truman?”
He pushes the door open with his foot, then retreats back into the corner. She peeks inside, gets onto her hands and knees, and closes the door behind her.
He whispers, as quiet as he can. “Did you check the bushes like I told you too?”
She nods. “There’s no one there, Truman.”
“They got in the house. I went for a walk… the air outside is so much better than in the house. That’s how they got inside. ” He starts to scratch the side of his arm, scanning the pantry shelves for cameras or microphones he might have missed “We need to get out of here, Sylvia. It’s for real this time.”
She didn’t think it was real the last two times. He let it go; they hadn’t found any cameras or microphones. But this is different. They are here; he can feel them. He can feel the eyes of all the people tuning in. He scratches his arm harder- the pain grounds him from his panic.
“Truman?” He looks up at Sylvia. “Did you hear me?”
He shakes his head and gives her a nervous laugh. “Sorry, what?”
She looks at him with a mixture of sympathy and pity, and his stomach drops. “I’m saying I checked. I checked the bushes and the living room and the kitchen. There aren’t any cameras.. Don’t you remember last time?”
Truman fights the urge to yell at her and digs his nails deeper into his skin. He remembers when he was like her: ignorant and stupid of his surroundings. He is different now. Truman has promised himself that he will never, ever be the subject to a camera’s eye again. “This is different. I know they’re there.”
She bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut. “Have you been taking the medication, Tru?”
“No!” He huffs. “No. No. This has nothing to do with the medication.”
“Truman…”
He can see the doubt on her face.
“I promise you’re safe, Truman. No one knows you live here.”
The lawyer got a lot of money out of the company and state for “emotional damages” and “unethical practices.” Things he didn’t really understand and didn’t care to understand, but relieved him of having to find work in a world he hadn’t been raised to be a part of. It was a lot of money, an amount that was incomprehensible. So much so they could find this house in the middle of nowhere, and a house in the city for Sylvia. So much so he could buy a life supply of blonde hair dye and pay for as many cosmetic surgeries as he wanted. He’s already had 3. Different doctors each time.
The Cameras still found him.
“Do you want to get out of here? We can make dinner. Maybe you can call the psychiatrist?” She smiles timidly.
That’s when he knows she’s lying.
She wants him in the house where the cameras are.
She’s part of the show. Again.
Truman’s fingers reach for the kitchen knife he’s hidden behind him.
He’ll get out of here.
He can’t think. He can feel the camera she’s wearing on his skin. He sizes her up and down before finding the necklace that hangs around her neck- his noose. He can’t plan with them watching him. He just can’t.
“Truman?”
He jumps up, welding the knife in between them. “Get out!”
Sylvia’s eyes are wide. He grins. “You’re surprised I noticed. Well!” He gives a little bow. “My fans must be delighted to see me again.”
He steps forward, pointing the knife at her, stretching his smile. He’s only a foot away. Why hasn’t she gotten up? Why hasn’t she fled? He laughs in her face.
“You thought I wouldn’t realize?”
“Truman. I’m not-”
“Get up!”
She slowly gets up, holding her hands outward as if to touch him. “It isn’t a show…”
He holds it up to her neck. He won’t be fooled. Not again. “Leave!”
She flinches as he pushes her out of the pantry. He goes back to hiding in the corner. What is he going to do? He realizes now this is all a set. He needs to find the exit. There must be another door- leading to another set? Were there just bigger and bigger bubbles to the show? Was there any escape?
He had a feeling the cameras would find him anywhere he ran.
Before he can make a plan, the crew storms in and cuffs him.
—-
They sedate him in the ambulance. He won’t stop screaming, slashing at the “responder” with the knife he’d hidden in his pocket.
—-
He wakes up in the hospital.
He can’t move. His wrists and ankles and thighs are strapped to the bed, so he can only move his head. He stays silent. If he doesn’t say anything, maybe the viewers will get bored. Maybe they will move on.
A man comes in.
“Truman, hello.” The “doctor” has files in his hands. He sits in the chair besides the bed and gives Truman a warm smile. He’s a good actor. “I’m Dr. Frost. I’m sorry you’re in these conditions, but it is for safety. We called your psychiatrist and she’s on the way.”
He can’t move. He has no control. It’s just like the island. After he “got out,” he always wondered if he even had a personality at all. Is he just what his creators made him to be? Who was Truman beyond the eye of his viewers? Even his name- his core- was chosen by producers and script writers. Truman.
An actor wearing scrubs walks past the open door. They’re doing good. The antiseptic smell. The actors walking by in scrubs, in wheelchairs, and in the occasional white coat. The files in Frost’s hands. It’s so convincing…
Frost continues. “Your friend Sylvia told me she doesn’t think you’ve been taking your medication.” He didn’t. He didn’t trust the psychiatrist, a petite woman he’s now sure is an actress. “And, of course, I know about the show. Given the extensive amount of trauma it has caused you, I know this probably feels incredibly difficult.” The man flipped through the papers in his hands. “I am thinking we can build a treatment plan once your psychiatrist gets here. We’re here to help you, Truman. How does that sound?”
He can’t move.
The doctor has pens in his jacket coat. That’s where the cameras are.
They got him.
He’s never going to get out like this. No, not yet. Right now, he has to play the game.
So he smiles. He gives his best grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes just right. “That sounds good to me.”
He will play their game until he can escape.
And if there’s no escape, he will kill himself.